by Gavin Graham
“I am God, and I am The Devil,” he flicked his tongue out and taunted her with it like a fiendish imp.
“Yes, you are, c’mon, I need to feel you inside me. Please, feed her, now…” she gestured downwards with her sultry eyes, her legs fully splayed apart now, her labia wild, pink and totally alive, open for his intrusion.
“So, then, let me give you what you deserve…”
“Yeah, please, fuck me to death…”
Casanova smiled, as he reached behind, to carefully touch upon the handle of his hidden blade. “As you wish,” he replied, with dutiful glee.
Chapter 3
The final tease, by a cold shank of steel
The smell of her sinful and promiscuous furrow is infusing the air…
Her chest and belly heaved in the closing shadows, cast by the skew of an idle curtain and the Scottish rarity of a fading blood-orange sunset through a double-glazed window. She continued to savour every last breath she took, thriving on the anticipation, getting evermore turned-on and desperate. “C’mon, give it to me, hard...” she was pleading now, for this strange man to have her, take her, as intimately and savagely as he wished. This total stranger, that she had met on Tinder and invited into her home under a close veil of secrecy and absolute discretion.
She is ready to be consumed by the darkness...
“You want to feel me inside you, huh? Is that what you want?”
“Yeah, do it…”
Casanova unbuckled his trousers to reveal a hardening penis. It was long, virile and muscled.
When she saw it, her eyes glowed and her jaw dropped. “Oh…God…” she gasped with erotic excitement. Her lower region was literally breathing with need, like the vulva and pink folds were an actual mouth, searching for the air of life; to breath it and feel it and be penetrated by it. Her desire was through the roof, like the sexual organ that she lusted for with her eyes, and her womb, was some kind of life-support mechanism, or a food that she would potentially die without; pure sustenance.
The killer smiled as he clutched his fleshy muscle at the heavy mid-point. “Is it bigger than his?” he asked, still smirking and darting his eyes over to the bed, his dick in one hand and a sharp knife in the other, holding it discreetly behind the back of his right leg.
“Yes, much bigger than my husband’s cock, now give it to me…I'm begging you, please…fuck me…punish me…cure my sin, my filth, cleanse me…”
She is well and truly spellbound…
“Indeed, I shall,” he stepped closer, leading with the tip of his manhood, putting it down to her sweet opening, and he slowly put himself deep inside her. It pummelled the entire depths of her womanly cave and she gasped for life, groaning like Hell with her eyes closed as he subtly placed the knife down upon her make-up desk. He gripped her fleshy love-handles and started to push into her with slow and firm pelvic thrusts, feeding her kitty with his phallic demon-head.
He raised his hands and violently tore her shirt open. The buttons flew like projectiles and her eyes fluttered with intense excitement as she pouted her chest, still unaware of the knife that lay just an inch from her fingertips. He gently slid the straps of her bra over the backs of her shoulders, eager to touch on her motherly mounds, before coming down to the centre and tearing the lower mid-section apart, using both fists.
“Fuck!” she shouted, with raw excitement, feeling the adrenalin of the moment.
This demon is a savage…
The fully-mature magnificence of her creamy globes fell before him, in all their glory, with big rounded nips. Softly swaying. Rising and falling, gently, dancing blissfully with the forces of gravity and sex. She smiled back with approval, feeling his almighty strength and his domineering Alpha-manliness. He kept at it, smoothly slamming into her, satisfying her need. He pulled her body close, hugging her and kissing her with all the closeness of a seasoned lover, feeling the exquisite softness of her breasts as they pressed against his chest.
God, she feels good…
He held her tight and massaged her breasts with strong hands, tweaking at her luscious nips. “Are you ready for your punishment?” he whispered, kissing her cheek and sensually giving her the deepest, most arousing shag of her sweet life.
“Oh yes,” she slurred as the head of his staff reached to the back-end of her spine. “Yes, so deep,” she murmured, as he kept on hitting her spot, forcing her into the zone, setting her onto an extreme orgasmic build-up. “Oh yeah…punish me, deeper, harder…”
He grabbed the knife and slowly diminished his pelvic movements to a less aggressive pace. This seemed to confuse and slightly annoy her and once again she dreamily looked up into his wicked eyes, his penis now lingering at a frustrating point where he was half-in and half-out. With his left hand he stroked her cheek, almost adoringly. He looked deep into her eyes, searching, till he saw what he had to see - it was the final conformation. “You really are a very bad whore Julia, so bad...”
She smiled back, clearly frustrated at being sexually halted against her will, his great ability to ‘tease’ was pure torture. She held his wrist, cherishing his musk, and as he stroked her cheek she softly kissed the pulse-point at the back of his hand. “Yes, I’m a whore,” she whispered. “But please, please don’t stop…you feel so good inside me…nobody has ever been that deep…”
“You know what I do to whores, Julia?”
“Yes, you like to punish them. So, just use and abuse me as hard as you like…cum inside me…rape me if you want…kill me if you want…but, please, just don’t stop…”
“OK, are you ready for it?”
“Oh yes…thank God…give it to me, all of it…”
“Close your eyes.”
“OK,” the woman obeyed, and in that moment, she was as good as dead.
Chapter 4
The sex, the murder & the Glory
She wants pleasure, but she needs to die…
One more time, he slowly entered, gently easing himself all the way in. He still stroked around her ears and the walnut locks of hair that were sticky now with a lusty mist of sweat, forming right up at the hairline. He held it there, deeply inside her, savouring the look of pure indulgence that struck so intensely in her infernal gestures, as she revelled in the pulsations that would now be exploding in and around her tingling sweet spot. She looked so serious and focussed as she relished the act.
Feeling all of his power.
Enjoying every inch of her punishment.
He took the knife, right then, clutching its wooden handle. He took the tip of the blade and held it down at a tiny fold of skin before thrusting it up into her gut, right through a delicious layer of soft tummy-fat.
She gasped for air as her eyes popped and he put his left hand down to hold her spine as he gripped the blade with masterful force and resisted the temptation to laugh; she really hadn’t seen it coming.
She would die now, in his arms; their ‘time’ certainly had come.
He continued to penetrate her sex as she felt the peaks of pleasure and pain, blood forming between them in a glorious crimson spread; like a deliciously powerful ectoplasm, all warm and sticky. Parts of her went limp and other parts tensed. She had this classic look on her face, of fixed curiosity and sudden surprise.
Like, what the Hell?
You came to my house to kill me?
But, why?
Why me?
Why this?
Why, why, why…?
She looked down at his clenched fist and the blood-stained trunk of a thick shank of steel, hanging out of her stomach, having bludgeoned her bowels. He gripped the handle so tight that his knuckles were white, bowing his head with semi-orgasmic satisfaction. As their heads remained in a downward slant, he stabbed her again, repeatedly, thrusting up several more times with the tip of the blade, slicing into her till the redness of her blood poured even thicker, completely coating the ivory creaminess of her tainted midriff.
Her head came back upright, like someone had pulled at
the back of her hair, and she groaned like a half-dead goat.
She was so beautiful in her moment of death, so incredibly beautiful and sensual.
Divine, in a dark way.
Perfect, in an almost decadent way.
He watched with fascination as her eyes opened even wider, behind a scraggly curtain of hair, a questioning look of shock that grew evermore inquisitive, with the most subtle frown of fear and finality that you could ever imagine. He just looked right back into those beautiful brown eyes and continued to flex his penis inside her, with absolute delight.
He wouldn’t stop.
No way.
Not just because of the bleeding and the dying; that was no reason to stop. Actually, that was the best bit. “Don’t struggle, just enjoy the moment and die with grace. This is your punishment, OK? So, just enjoy it, ya’ dirty whore…” he said, smiling and mocking, as he seized the moment.
Amazingly she obeyed, in her moment of death and shocked confusion, she followed his twisted monologue. She didn’t struggle, not knowing why, but she continued to enjoy the feel of him as he slowly ejaculated inside her, gently tensing his buttocks as he savoured his release and felt her body too as it jerked pathetically in mild shuddering spasms of pleasureful death.
Allowing his brief, grunting orgasm to pass, he retraced his penis and simultaneously yanked the blade out from her gut. It gave way to an awesome wave of blood that gushed out and landed upon his flat, muscled stomach as it spurted freely, its dark redness coating his belly and dripping down.
It felt hot and thick.
It felt good.
She wanted to scream, but couldn’t, because the body responds in a peculiar way: the startle-effect that struck whilst staring deeply into the eyes of a psychopathic killer as he sliced with his blade and infected her insides with his demon seed. The terror had spiked when she realised that his great promise of orgasmic intercourse was also one of a grisly and murderous bloodbath. The sizzling shock-factor numbs the pain and blocks it all out, somehow.
All she can see are his evil eyes…
You get this point where the victim just looks back at the killer like they are unsure of what to say, or like they are accusing you, silently, of being a very naughty man. In some ways, he found it cute, and it made him smile.
Her mouth remained etched in that iconic ‘o’-shape silent scream.
The scream never comes…
She did manage a murmur though. She said a man’s name - Alistair - presumably she was calling for her doting husband, to rush home and rescue her, and to save the day with all the ferocious loyalty of his small, dysfunctional man-worm.
Perhaps she wanted to say ‘sorry’.
Perhaps she wanted to tell him ‘good-bye’.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t really matter, because now she will die at The Devil’s altar…
A marvellously perturbed look of disbelief lingered in her eyes, still stunned by all the pain and all the pleasure that she had just experienced, trying to understand what it all meant. It is amazing, really, that they never struggled as much as he expected them to.
Is it a dream?
No, my dear, it is a living nightmare…
Her blank stare soon turned to one of sorrow, almost as if she was mourning her own demise. The eyes became heavy, like she was under anaesthetic and ready to pass out. Then, as the angels came and her essence was abruptly taken, her passageway to darkness peaked over the horizon, her point-of-sight somewhere behind him and outside of the double-glazed window.
Such a beautiful and celestial sunset…
She must have seen it so clearly as she opened her mouth wider now, still in the clutches of the famous silent scream, raising her head further and tilting it back. In that moment, her mouth trembled and her lips turned limp. The eyes rolled up and back into her head and she slumped the final slump.
Dead as a do-do…
She will now taste the joys of the keepers of the void, in her eternal dimension of guaranteed purgatory…
Chapter 5
Bad coffee & human mutilation
The mind can be a place of infinite torture and unimaginable misery…
The Detective Chief Inspector sipped from a paper cup and stared out the window onto central Govan; entranced by confusion, depressive frustration and a general misery of Glaswegian proportions.
Hundreds of screeching voices echoed in his ears as the coffee failed to sort him, it just tasted like blackened tap water and to make matters worse, it wasn’t having the desired effect; not even close. It was that old familiar morning anxiety, the one that can’t be phased out by caffeine or alcohol, although he often tried. It was the fear of people coming to him for help and not being able to do anything about it, not knowing what to say, just fumbling around for appropriate words before realising that there was only one word to say - sorry.
In that situation, there is no hope and no goodness.
God is nowhere to be found as only He might offer a worthy conciliation. A conciliation of divinity, perhaps, to comfort and console. But, the tired Inspector was no God and in those moments of acute anxiety he realised what a Godless town it really was; his Glasgow.
“You wantin’ another coffee?”
DCI Mac McGreavy came out of his trance like a man who’d been slapped across the face by a remarkably angry woman. He looked up at the sullen waitress who callously chewed her gum, then down to his coffee, before looking back up and speaking his reply. “No, dear, you’re OK,” he said it with compassion, as if the coffee was so bad that it was a thing to be mourned. There was a lot of investment in Govan, a financial-drive to see it transformed into a more ‘cosmopolitan’ district; but apparently a decent coffee-shop just wasn’t on the cards. He smiled, pathetically, and slowly blinked his eyes, as if to say: “don’t worry dear, everything will be OK.”
But, it won’t be OK…
The dour waitress left the man to scurry in his mind where the screeching voices no longer echoed but hid in the shadowy depths of his traumatised subconscious. He pushed the paper cup of coffee further across the table before him and sunk his head in defeat, wondering what horrors might occur on a day like today.
Just then, his phone vibrated, from some pocket of his crumpled attire. He scurried with his hands, searching, touching around his body like a man struck by a vicious itch. He dug it out from deep within the side-pocket of his trench coat and his hand stammered ever-so-slightly as he pressed the answer key with a thick and weathered thumb. “Yes?”
“Boss, Siobhan here. There’s been a murder.”
“Where?” he barked, immediately coming to life with a new sense of purpose.
Siobhan gave him an address, out by Giffnock way.
His haggardly figure ducked under the yellow CRIME SCENE tape, looking somewhat hungover in the strain of the hunch, and he was admitted entry to the house by a wet-under-the-collar Police Constable who kept an entry-exit log.
Evil had visited that place, he could feel it, taste it.
He scurried upstairs where camera flashes erupted from the inside of a bedroom and Crime Scene Officers in white suits were carefully examining the room in minute detail. The victim was laid out, somewhat sensually, on the bed, in a fashion that was presumably symbolic of something.
The room was drenched in blood.
The reddish-green corpse was already beyond the stage of autolysis and was visibly bloating, probably around 1.5 times her normal size, pre-murder, and foaming blood had visibly seeped from the mouth and nose. The body had essentially eaten itself from the inside out as hungry enzymes went to work - the rancid process of a rotting death. The release of gas and waste made for a rank stench and it was having an effect on those present. Detective Sergeant Siobhan Calloway, for instance, wretched as the Inspector approached her side, unable to hold down her breakfast.
She excused herself.
The victim’s neckline was red-raw, suggesting strangulation, but she’d been stabbed more than five
times by the looks of it. Her stomach had been cut open, too, with a fine cutting instrument - a scalpel perhaps - quite possibly after the acts of sexual intercourse, stabbing and strangulation; it was hard to tell.
She’d been cut from the breast bone down to the upper-vaginal area. The killer had entered her stomach with his bare hands it seemed and pulled out the liver which he had thrown down next to the corpse on the bed. Blood from the victim’s body had been gathered in a pint-sized beer glass and used to paint the word - HOOKER - on the wall above the bed, using a school-grade, thin-tip paintbrush. Large pools of standing-blood were gathered on the wooden floor. Blood splatter was everywhere; various patterns and formations.
It was in no doubt, a horrific crime scene.
The Inspector spoke, with croakiness in his throat, his mouth drier than a box of matches. “Has a time of death been determined?” he asked Detective Inspector Jimmy ‘The Swede’ McGhee, his strong-arm and right-hand man, a 6’5” Dolph Lundgren look-alike who was hard-as-nails and could go toe-to-toe with any of the city’s hardest men, any day of the week. He wasn’t Swedish, he was 100% Scottish, but his close-cropped fair hair was unusually whitish-blonde and had garnered him the nickname. He was a highly intuitive cop with a remarkable talent for decyphering crime scenes.
“Three days dead, going by the state of decomposition,” said McGhee, matter-of-factly. “Pools of blood at a point by the make-up desk, over there, suggests free-falling outflow from a medium-level height, meaning she was probably killed by multiple stab wounds in an upright position, quite possibly during the act of sexual intercourse as semen stains are present in the same area.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” the Inspector listened, intently.
“I would imagine the killer then repositioned the victim upon the bed where he strangled her and continued to have sex with her dead body…”
